Hardass (Bad Bitch)(9)

Mr. Granade and I stood.

“Mr. Ellis.” Confidence radiated from Mr. Granade. His charm switch was officially flipped.

“Hey.” He shuffled to his chair, the chains jingling far too jauntily for the situation.

“I’m Washington Granade, but you can call me Wash, and this is my associate, Caroline Montreat. Please, have a seat.”

I nodded at Rowan during my introduction. He focused on me as he dropped into his seat. The guard fastened Rowan’s chains to something under the table and yanked to make sure it was solid. Once satisfied, the guard left and shut the door behind him. We were alone with a suspected serial killer, one who kept looking at me with too-wide pupils. I began to regret wearing my cobalt blue sexy top for Mr. Granade. I shifted in my seat, surreptitiously moving my lapels closed and blocking the view.

Rowan still watched me, his gaze catching mine and holding it.

“Mr. Ellis, let’s get started.” Mr. Granade clicked his pen.

“I ain’t done nothing.” The accent had a slight Cajun tinge. Rowan finally switched his gaze over to Mr. Granade.

I took a breath and tried to calm my rapid-fire heartbeat. He definitely gave me the creeps, but that didn’t mean he was a killer.

“I understand. I do. But I’m going to need you to shoot straight with me. I need you to tell me everything. Every detail about how you wound up here. So start at the beginning.”

“My mama send you two here?”

“Your mother is paying for your defense, yes. But we work for you. You’re our client. We’ll do everything we can to get you out of this.”

“I shouldn’t be here. I don’t need your help. Well, maybe I need some of hers.” He leered at me, his two bottom teeth absent from roll call.

Mr. Granade slammed his fist down, the metallic clang jolting me. “Cut the shit, Rowan. You are a trial away from lethal injection. Seven women, seven bodies, seven death sentences. Either you cooperate and let us help you or we’ll refund the retainer and let you hang. No skin off my back either way.”

The guard peeked through the reinforced rectangle of glass in the door. Mr. Granade’s other hand rested on my knee and gave me a reassuring squeeze. His skin was warm, his palm slightly calloused. I shook my head at the guard. We got this.

“Damn, boy. You ain’t have to yell.” Rowan flinched back in his seat.

“I do when you threaten my associate. Treat her with respect or we walk.” Mr. Granade’s tone was harder than the steel beneath his fist.

Rowan shrugged, seemingly conceding defeat. “Whatever, man. Just get me out of this shit. I didn’t do nothing.”

Mr. Granade took his hand away from my knee, but I wanted it back. I forced my slightly shaking hands to stay on the table, ready to write, instead of grabbing his and squeezing. This was the big leagues. I needed to adjust my game accordingly.

“Let’s start with preschool. Give me your educational background, your life background. I want a full picture—parents, schools, friends, girlfriends, where you lived, who you lived with, your relationship with your parents, everything. I need to know you better than you know yourself by the time we’re done. You follow?”

Rowan nodded, his attention now fully on Mr. Granade.

We questioned him for hours. By “we” I mean Mr. Granade questioned him while I took copious notes. Rowan told a life story that wasn’t altogether unbelievable but had plenty of holes, especially during the prior three years when the murders occurred. His meth habit didn’t help on the memory front.

Rowan had a normal childhood, good family—wealthy, even—and a decent education. All the ingredients necessary to make a contributing member of society were present, but at some point, he went wrong. Hard drugs and hard living made him look a lot older than his thirty-five years.

More than that, he did a lot of reprehensible shit. His lengthy rap sheet was one of the reasons the cops got on his trail in the first place. A murder charge he’d ducked five years ago definitely didn’t help—another hooker, her body washing up along the banks of the Mississippi with Rowan as her last known john.

When we were finally finished and my notepad was almost completely full front to back, Mr. Granade called for the guard.

“You got any commissary money set up yet?” Mr. Granade asked.

“Nah, I don’t think so.”

“All right. I’ll get with your mom to get that taken care of. Here’s my card. They’ll let you keep it. I expect a call from you anytime you have any problems, issues, anything. Got it?”

“Yeah, man.”

“Don’t say anything important over the phones. They’re tapped. And I hope I don’t have to remind you not to talk to anyone about your case. Just Ms. Montreat or myself. Not even your mother. Got me?”